I almost handed the courier bag to the society guard and left. Instead I decided to ring Leela’s flat myself, because the main gate was half blocked by rath yatra bamboo and the lift lobby smelled of wet marigold strings. Karan had messaged that his mother needed the spare laptop charger before evening aarti practice started downstairs.
She opened on the second ring in a soft cotton house saree, blouse hooks already loose from the Ahmedabad heat. Come in before the corridor fan dies again. Roads will choke once the dhol teams roll out. I stepped past the threshold with the bag and the charger box.
The living room held two sealed cartons of old festival lights marked in Gujarati chalk. She pointed with her chin. If you have five minutes, shift those toward the balcony so I can open the steel almirah. I set the courier down and gripped the first carton. When I straightened, her shoulder brushed my chest and neither of us moved away.
I said her name quietly. Leela. Not auntie. She looked up, steady. Call me Leela if you plan to stay longer than a parcel drop. I can still send you out. The choice sat between us like the warm steel of the window grill.
I answered by setting the carton down and touching the loose end of her pallu where sweat darkened the print. She did not pull back. Her hand found my wrist and guided it to her waist under the saree fall, palm flat on bare skin above the petticoat knot. Yes, she said. Here. Not in the corridor where the watchman walks.
Cartons Left Half Stacked
We left the second box tilted against the sofa. She locked the main latch with her free hand and walked me past the kitchen where the pressure cooker still hissed on low flame. In the bedroom the curtain was drawn against the western glare. Ceiling fan clicked on its slowest speed.
I kissed her mouth first, tasting elaichi from the chaas she had poured and forgotten. She answered with open lips and fingers at my belt. When I paused, she tugged the leather free herself. Keep going only if you want this the same way I do. I can stop us both. I said I want it and pushed the saree off her shoulder.
Her blouse opened under my thumbs. She shrugged it down, then untied the petticoat so the cotton pooled at her ankles. Bare in the dim room, she pulled my shirt over my head and pressed her breasts against my chest, nipples already tight. I cupped them, thumbs circling, and she arched with a low sound that mixed with the distant dhol practice outside.
She backed onto the bed and drew me with her. I kissed down her stomach, parted her thighs, and tasted her until her hips lifted and her fingers tightened in my hair. She told me to come up. I want you inside, not just your mouth. Condom is in the side drawer if you need it. I found one, rolled it on while she watched, then settled between her legs.
I pushed in slow. She was wet and ready, heels locking behind my thighs. Her eyes stayed open on mine. Harder is fine. Tell me if you need slower. I thrust deeper, bed frame tapping the wall in time with the fan. She met every stroke, nails scoring my back, breath breaking into short Gujarati curses mixed with my name.
Sweat slicked our stomachs. I slid a hand between us and rubbed her clit in short circles until she clenched hard and came with her face turned into the pillow to muffle the sound. The squeeze pulled me over. I finished buried deep, forehead against her collarbone, both of us shaking through the last pulses.
When The Video Tone Cut In
We stayed tangled until the cooker whistle shrieked again from the kitchen. She laughed once, soft, then sat up and reached for a towel. Bathroom first. Then you help me finish those cartons like nothing happened. I nodded, peeled the condom carefully, knotted it, and dropped it in the bin under a tissue.
She wrapped the towel and stepped out. I pulled on underwear and jeans, still bare-chested, searching for my shirt near the foot of the bed. My watch had slipped onto the sheet. I left it there a second too long while wiping sweat from my neck.
Her phone lit on the dressing table with Karan’s video-call tone, the ringtone she kept loud for him. She rushed back in, hair damp, towel clutched. Hide. No—just stay quiet and finish dressing. I grabbed my shirt from under the bed edge as she accepted the call with the camera tilted carefully at the wall calendar.
I heard her voice steady in the doorway. Haan beta, charger aaya. Vikram dropped it and is leaving now. Festival noise bahar. I shoved my arms through the sleeves, heart hammering, and spotted the open condom wrapper half under the pillow. She saw it the same moment I did. Her free hand snagged it and crushed it into her fist while she kept talking about aarti timing.
I mouthed sorry and edged toward the bedroom door. She blocked me with her hip for one second, eyes sharp, then nodded me toward the living room. Go. Balcony side stair if the lift lobby has people. I slipped out, barefoot shoes in hand, past the half-moved cartons and the forgotten steel glass of chaas.
On the grilled balcony I jammed my feet into the sneakers and heard her finish the call inside. The wrapper was gone from sight, but my watch still lay on the wrinkled sheet where any later glance would find the leather strap and the scratched face. I took the service stairs two at a time as a neighbor’s door opened somewhere below, festival dhol rolling closer up the lane.
At the ground landing I stopped only long enough to button the last shirt button. Above me her balcony curtain shifted once. No wave. Just the plain fact that something small and shiny remained on her bed, waiting for whoever entered that room next.